


Cleansed

by dutchmoxie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 18:06:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dutchmoxie/pseuds/dutchmoxie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly after her almost boyfriend turns out to be a psychopath. She feels dirty and Sherlock intrudes on private moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleansed

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: It’s not me; it’s Moffatt and Gatiss still. 
> 
> AN: So, this is not overtly Sherlolly romance, but it is a cute start that might get follow up in a separate story if my prompts decide to go that way.

During her third shower that day, she finally felt the vomit that had been lodged in her gut come up, so she tripped out of the shower and threw her head practically into the toilet so she could make it in time. 

As she sat on her bathroom floor, cold, wet, shivering, and naked, she realized that feeling clean was still a long way away from her. She might have been clean – she might have been clean two showers ago, seeing as her skin was still raw from all of the scrubbing – but she still did not feel it.   
Because her boyfriend was a murderer and she did not know. Because she got fooled by charm and beauty again, just because she wanted to feel liked and wanted. Because he touched her, and she let him, and now she can still feel evil fingers crawling all over her body and it makes her so nauseous she has to dive back into the toilet. 

This is the first time she is glad that her prudishness does not let her sleep with a guy until at least the fifth or sixth date, and even though Jim was incredibly charming and she was indeed tempted, she kept her promises to herself. 

“Why are you naked,” someone was in her bathroom. 

“Get out,” she screamed. “Out! Can’t you respect my privacy? Out!”

With the flash of dark curls she got as the person swings out of her bathroom, she realized that Sherlock Holmes had just seen her naked, and crying and vomiting into her toilet. That was just a lovely capper on a crush that had to end right there and then. 

“Why are you not at the morgue,” was the question that followed her outburst. 

“I am sick, in case you had not noticed,” she grabbed a clean towel, really the closest thing to an outfit she can find, and quickly threw on a dingy bathrobe. 

She followed his long legs down her hall and into her tiny living room, knowing that he would require some kind of explanation before she kicked him out of her place. He always needed to know everything, something that she often found endearing, but now thought of as invasive and almost cruel, because if it had not been for him, this would never have happened anyway. 

It was not right to blame him for Jim, because he was nobody’s fault but her own, but she knew that Jim would never have reached out for her if it had not been for Sherlock. She was used for her access to the infamous detective, and she knew it well. 

“So you are not pregnant,” another question, one that threw her. 

“Not unless immaculate conception has become possible,” she rolled her eyes, as she tried to sit down without flashing him something he would not want to see. 

“Why are you retching then,” another question that he apparently could not deduce. 

“Because this evil person used me for his mind games with you and that makes me sick,” she was as obvious as she possibly could be at this point. “He knows where I live and where I work and he has touched me and I am terrified and nauseous and so exhausted that I might just fall over in the middle of an autopsy. Now get out!” 

She was still on her couch, and he was still looking her over like the signals he was reading did not compute in that mind palace of his, if he had not already deleted all of the unimportant information that was associated with her. 

“Have you changed your locks,” a rather plain and stupid question. 

“Yes,” she was exasperated, knowing it was impossible to get him out of her apartment until his every question had been answered. “However, I honestly doubt that a simple lock change is going to stop a psychopath if he really wanted to get to me.” 

Wow, that actually silenced him, for a little while. 

“That is indeed true,” he finally seemed to grasp her point. “You should move.” 

Of course, she would just pack up all of her stuff and move into one of the many readily available apartments in London that were also in her price range and close enough to St. Bart’s to not cost her tons of money in commute costs. Yes, she was indeed getting better at the sarcasm thing, but she knew explaining it to Sherlock in this way was going to be a waste of time, and she just wanted to be left alone. 

“Unless you have something helpful to do here, you can leave,” she told him once again, fighting the urge to take another shower, or another dive into the toilet. 

A shiver ran down her spine, and she wrapped her ratty coat around her body once again, trying to keep it as tight against her body as possible. It still was not warm enough for her, and she really needed to crawl into her bed, curl up with some pillows and just cry until her eyes were dry. But that would not happen until he had left. 

“I think I do know something helpful,” he was hesitant all of a sudden. 

The reason for this became obvious when he suddenly moved closer to her and sat down next to her on her comfortable couch. He got even closer after that, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her into his body and his warmth. 

“There, there,” he spoke hesitantly. “Sherlock’s here.” 

As the small giggle that escaped her at his awkwardness turned into the tears that she had been afraid to let go, and the handkerchief that had been thrust into her hands was showing her tear streaks, she finally felt a little safer. 

She finally felt cleaner, at least for a little while.


End file.
